Beware the Bunny
by Beuller
Summary: Response to weekly YTDAW improv challenge. My take on what TPTB seem to have it out for rabbits.


BEWARE THE BUNNY

**Summary**: YTDAW Improv challenge. First and last lines provided. I've begun to think that one of TPTB has had some sort of rabbit-related trauma. This is my tribute.

**Disclaimer**: I don't think referring to CSI as "my program" constitutes legal ownership.

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"I don't want to know." Brass sighed, shaking his head.

"Are we in Vegas or Graceland?" came the throaty timber of Sara Sidle as she joined the derisive detective. At their feet lay a bilious figure in a white leisure suit whose resemblance to Elvis Presley could not be coincidence. The man lay on his side, one pudgy arm flung out from the shoulder, obscuring his face with gold fringed white polyester. Apparently not blessed with the luscious locks of his obvious icon, the deceased had lost his head, or at least his hair, and the bad black wig, complete with sideburns, lay several inches from the top of the man's dome.

"You know, lots of people believe he isn't really dead." Commented David, the assistant coroner as he gauged the subject's liver temperature.

"Well, he's dead now." Grumbled detective Brass rubbing his face with both hands, "You know, I don't even know why I bother being surprised. I think I'll go find someone to interview." Brass turned and walked off while muttering something about needing a stiff drink.

"What's wrong with detective Brass?" David asked politely.

"I don't know, I guess he isn't an Elvis fan." Sara responded distractedly, already intent on analyzing the room around her. Flashing the Mag Light across the dimly lit room, the beam revealed they were in what was probably referred to as a recreation room. Outfitted with a pool table and mismatched sectional sofas, the décor could only be described as early seventies sleaze. Wood paneled walls and green shag carpet completed the look. The pile on the carpet was long enough to hide small rodents and Sara found herself vaguely wondering what might be living in the creases of the couch.

"Hey, Sara—" there was a pause, and audible sniffing from behind the CSI, "did you bring snacks?" Grissom asked by way of announcing his arrival.

Surprised, Sara turned to face her supervisor, "I thought you were with Sofia on a B&E."

"Turns out it was a cat burglar—literally. The old lady's cat was snatching her jewelry. We found it buried in its litter box. I sent Sofia back to the lab and thought you could use some help." Grissom sniffed audibly again, "can you smell that?"

Sara shook her head, "I can't smell anything, allergies." She answered simply, "why, what do you smell?"

Grissom set down his kit and continued sniffing deeply, literally following his nose to the body, pausing briefing only to ask David if he was ready to release the body. David answered in the affirmative and Grissom continued his olfactory investigation, getting down on his hands and knees until he was practically nose-to-nose with the expired Elvis.

"Hey Sara, can you shoot him before we move him?"

Sara quickly and efficiently took in-situ pictures of the body as Grissom glanced around the room. Once she was done Grissom rolled the body so that "Elvis" was laying on his back. Both CSIs unconsciously cocked their heads at the sight.

"Is that a sandwich in his mouth?" Sara broke the silence as she recommenced taking pictures.

Furrowing his brow, Grissom pulled a plastic bag out of his vest. "Yeah, and if the nose knows, I am fairly certain that its peanut butter and banana."

"Hey David," Grissom called after he and Sara finished processing the body, "we are done with Mr. Presley here. Can you make sure the p.b. and banana stays put until he reaches the morgue?" Looking at Sara, Grissom deadpanned, "Apparently the King's posthumous tastes haven't changed much."

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Later that shift both CSIs met the Las Vegas coroner in his kingdom.

"Seven hundred, sixty seven." Robbins announced as he, Sara and Grissom leaned over the deceased. Both CSIs looked at the coroner expectantly. "That's how many times I've autopsied Elvis since I started working here." His eyes twinkled, "though I'll admit, this C.O.D. is a new one."

"Never had anyone come in impaled by a peanut butter and banana sandwich?" Sara asked smirking.

"Actually no—though I am more of a bologna on wheat with mustard kind of guy." He grinned, "I found large amounts a white sticky substance in the throat, stomach and aspirated into the lungs. I sent it up to the lab." He paused, effectively raising the tension from his attentive audience. "I also found a significant amount of pulmonary edema fluid suggesting that the victim died of an acute upper airway obstruction."

"He choked." Grissom stated.

"Yeah—but not on the sandwich. I pulled that out of his mouth in-tact. Unfortunately the guy died before he could event take his last bite. It's the white stuff that did this guy in."

"Where have I heard that before?" Sara smiled.

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Sara began the next shift in the trying company of David Hodges.

"Got anything for me?" she asked, leaning against the edge of a counter in the trace lab.

Holding up a piece of paper, little fingers of each hand arched primly in the air, Hodges rattled off, "Corn syrup, egg whites and gelatin."

Sara furrowed her brow, "Which isssss?"

Trying to hide his excitement that for once he knew more that Sara Sidle, Hodges sought to prolong his victory. He raised his eyebrows in mock surprise, "Oh Sara, Sara, Sara—slipping are we?" she began to frown. Not wanting to experience what generally followed a Sara frown, Hodges hastened to the point. "Rocky road ice cream, hot chocolate and s'more."

Looking more confused than enlightened, Sara asked, "marshmallow?"

"Well, to be more correct, melted marshmallow. When a marshmallow melts it becomes not only physically but chemically different from its original air filled state."

"So, the vic was killed by marshmallow?" Sara asked the room at large, entirely perplexed.

"How old was the vic?"

"Adult." She answered, the fingers of her right hand toying with her bottom lip.

"Where did you find the stuff?" Hodges asked, his interest peaked.

"It was in the guy's throat, stomach and lungs."

"Seriously?"

"Yeah, weird—huh?"

Looking up, Sara found Hodges with a very strange look on his face. "What?"

Viewing her uncertainly, Hodges answered, "When I was a kid my parents sent me to outdoor summer camp. They thought it would toughen me up." Hodge's shivered. "It was dirty." Sara pursed her lips and made a 'come on, get with it' motion with her hands.

"Anyway it was a horrible experience with one exception. I was the undisputable chubby bunny champ."

Raising an eyebrow, Sara tried to banish the immediate visions attempting to flood her mind upon hearing the phrase 'chubby bunny.'

The struggle must have been obvious on her face. "Eeeeewww, Sidle, get your brain out of the gutter, I was eight. You've never heard of chubby bunny?"

"Obviously not."

"It's a game. You put a marshmallow in your mouth and say 'chubby bunny.' You repeat this action until you can no longer say 'chubby bunny.' The winner is the person who can fit the most marshmallows in his or her mouth and still say the term. I was an incredibly articulate child, which no doubt, contributed to my chubby bunny superiority."

That, and your big mouth, Sara thought. "And you think the vic might have been playing chubby bunny when he died?" She said skeptically.

"Well, a rather unpleasant side effect of the game is that as you approach critical mass, the marshmallows begin to melt and slide down the back of your throat. If he had enough in his mouth and was somehow impaired, he could have choked."

"I'm not real sure how it all fits, but this is good." Sara held out her hand for the results.

Pulling the paper toward his chest, Hodges jutted out his chin, "say I broke the case."

"Hodges, this is immature, even for you."

"Come on Sidle, just say it."

"Hodges…"

"Yes, Hodges, stop harassing my CSI."

Hodges paled visibly as the lab's patriarch entered the room. He quickly handed the report to Grissom.

"Boss, I crac…"

"Yeah, yeah, save it Hodges." Grissom cut-off the brown-nosing lab tech as he grasped Sara's elbow and he lead her out of the lab.

"Thanks Griss, but I can handle myself." Sara said once they were out of earshot.

"I was trying to protect _Hodges_." Grissom replied, with a wink.

Grinning at him, Sara explained what Hodges had found.

"Well, we know it wasn't an accident." He responded thoughtfully.

"Because the sandwich didn't have any bites taken out of it?" asked Sara.

"Well, that and Brass talked to the wife. She can't seem to get her story straight. You up for a little interviewing?" he asked as they proceeded toward the police compound, Grissom's hand still cupping Sara's elbow.

Grissom, Sara and Brass sat across from a small woman. She was middle-aged with flaming red hair and looked none-to-worse for having just lost her husband.

"So let make sure I understand, you were out getting milk when the incident occurred and came home to find your husband, errr, Herbert, and you called us?"

"Didn't I say that already?"

"When you found him, you didn't try to revive him?" Grissom asked, looking up from Brass's notes of the original interview."

"Well, it was obvious he was dead." She replied waving a hand in the air as if reviving her husband was an insane idea.

Sliding a close-up of Herbert, de-wigged and half of a sandwich protruding from his mouth, Sara asked, "Can you explain this"

"Oh that—he was eating them all the time. It's what he choked on right?" The wife asked hopefully.

"Not right. In fact, he never even took a bite of the sandwich." A niggle of the absurd struck Sara's conscience as she suddenly understood Brass's initial reaction. This _was_ simply ridiculous. "Mrs. Hansom, we know he didn't feed himself the sandwich. You two live alone and there was no indication of a break-in. What happened?"

"Okay, fine. The guy is a pig. You guys saw him. He's disgusting." Mrs. Hansom shrugged. "He used to be somethin' looked just like Elvis—really, he did. It's what brought us together. Sometimes he'd dress up like the King and it would really get me going. I'd had it thought, I was moving on and he knew it."

She took a breath, "He begged for one last chance. I wasn't going to give it to him but I knew he wouldn't give me a divorce. So, that night, he surprised me with himself—in an Elvis costume." At this she pressed two fingers to her forehead. "That was it. I had to get rid of him. I got him drunk."

"And stuffed him full of marshmallows?" Grissom finished, looking slightly horrified.

"Yeah. I read an article once about a kid in Chicago that put so many in her mouth she choked. Herbert thought we were playing a game."

"Chubby Bunny" Sara said thoughtfully.

"Honey, he wasn't chubby, he was just gross." Replied the wife, misunderstanding Sara's statement. "Besides, I'm more of a John Lennon girl now."

"Jesus, I knew I didn't want to know." Brass noted as he motioned for a uniform to handcuff Mrs. Hansom.

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As Sara was preparing to leave at the end of shift, her phone went off.

"Sara, it's Grissom."

"Where are you?" she asked looking around.

"Meet me behind CSI in five." The phone clicked off.

Feeling slightly like she'd been challenged to a fight after school, Sara rounded the building to find Grissom leaning over a smoking barrel. Rubbing her hands together in the early morning chill, she joined him.

"What's up Gris?"

He smiled and handed her a straightened coat hanger. "Hold this." He commanded. Producing a marshmallow from a paper shopping bag, he threaded the treat onto the end of the hanger. "You do know how to roast a marshmallow?" he asked.

"Sure." she responded weakly. He threaded his own and they stood for a moment roasting their marshmallows over the fire in the barrel.

Seeing that they were done to a golden brown, Grissom took Sara's hanger and motioned for her to sit down on one of the two milk crates arranged around the barrel.

"Grissom, what in the world are we doing out here?" The man could be infuriating—suddenly, sweetly infuriating.

Not answering he pulled out graham crackers and chocolate. Handing Sara a cracker, he deftly dropped the goey cooked blob on top. He followed it with chocolate and another graham cracker. Sitting down next to her, he proceeded to make his own.

"Man, I love these things." Was all he said as the two sat in the soft early morning light, munching on s'mores as a slight breeze blew through the yard rustling up unburned newspaper from the fire. They watched as the pieces fluttered through the air.

End

**A/N**: Unlike the hot tub scenario, I can actually cite my sources on this one. If you would like a list of references, please email me.

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